John would make a lot of money, and I’d still be a writer, alone with my thoughts. It would be like having two lives. Instead of adding hot water to a cupful of dehydrated chili, I’d eat sushi with John. The dream money swirled around us. I was an island of thrift within it, but it still touched me. The money felt like dress-up. It was a costume. I didn’t need it, but it was good to have.
